


Quench

by bewarethesmirk



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/pseuds/bewarethesmirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is something they’re not supposed to acknowledge aloud, no matter how many times Arthur catches Merlin staring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quench

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely lizardspots took prompts for porny fanart and she utilised derryere's prompt (Uhhh, accidental drunkenness ending in a shameful mutual handjob!) and mine (I VOTE FOR FROTTAGE. ANYWHERE, EVERYWHERE, I DON'T CARE. :D) to create this masterpiece: [Like Velvet](http://lizardspots.livejournal.com/286712.html) (NWS/NC-17). This piece began as a porny ficlet, but then developed a bit of context. It's cushioned in porn.
> 
> Thank you to the incomparable b_hallward, for all your beta help, time and advice. It has been truly invaluable.

“I don’t understand why you insist on wearing this jacket again,” Merlin says, although it’s a lie of epic proportions. He walks a full circuit around Arthur, taking his time to survey the effect. “The last time you wore it you were almost poisoned.”

Arthur huffs. Whether in amusement or disdain—or both—Merlin doesn’t know. “If I swore off all the clothing I wore when nearly getting killed, I’d not have anything left to wear, would I?”

And what a travesty that would be, Merlin thinks, but manages to keep it to himself. The temptation to blurt out these highly personal and embarrassing observations has only worsened with time. “What a shame,” he says. 

When Arthur just stares at him a bit too keenly, Merlin busies himself with the task of finding Arthur yet another pair of trousers. So far Arthur has turned up his nose at every pair Merlin has pulled from his wardrobe. Really, he doesn’t know why Arthur is being so picky considering there are to be no visitors at the feast. It’s just the court of Camelot celebrating the success of the crops as they prepare for the harvest. But Arthur is sometimes in a foul mood for the most ridiculous of reasons.

“Well?” Arthur says, and Merlin jumps.

“Well what?”

“Now that you’ve got the jacket on, do you think you can finish? Sometime before the feast.”

Merlin realises he’s been caught staring. But no matter. If he’s good at anything, it’s distracting Arthur. He smiles wide and revels in the wariness in Arthur’s gaze, who is no doubt wondering why his manservant is grinning at him, manically, after having just been treated to a spectacular whinging fit. “How about those brown trousers you wore to the last delegation? With Lady Ariel?”

Arthur is still staring at Merlin’s smile when he nods. “Fine. Just find them. That’ll take five years at the pace you’re setting.”

“Whatever you wish, sire.”

*

The feast is a downright bore. Merlin leans against the wall, listening to the absent-minded chatter of the other servants. Gwen has caught cold and is recuperating, and Merlin can’t help but smile whenever Morgana looks up with a puzzled expression, as if expecting Gwen to appear at her elbow any moment.

The night drags on forever – first Uther’s long-winded speech, and then several farmers speaking about their bounty of crops and what this success means for all of Albion. Merlin half-listens. He does care about the kingdom because it will someday be Arthur’s.

To pass the time, he pays particular care to topping up Arthur’s wine. When feasts are dull (and they often are), Arthur drinks heavily. Merlin always tries to stop him, knowing he’ll be castigated come morning for being the one to pour the wine, but Arthur glares at him and Merlin gives it up as a lost cause.

When there are no demands to pour wine, no plates to clear away, no other servants trying to lure him into their bed, Merlin sneaks sips of the wine. He knows Arthur sees, but he’s never been reprimanded. 

He hasn’t even drunk much, but everything is starting to blur around the edges and his cheeks feel a bit warm. 

If his eyes happen to land upon Arthur, it’s only because he’s wearing that jacket, which is a most fetching shade of red. Arthur’s skin shines pale in the candlelight of the table, his hair gold. Merlin’s throat might be a little dry, his chest a bit tight.

He drinks more.

*

 

A huge berating is on its way in the morning. Arthur is amazingly drunk. He staggers every other step, sagging against Merlin. Arthur is not giggling, and he’s not waxing nostalgic about his old sword fights with Morgana. For all the various incarnations of an inebriated Arthur he has seen, this one is unprecedented.

Arthur is tight-lipped and serious. His fists are clenched at his sides, except when he needs his hands to support himself against a wall or, occasionally, against Merlin. 

Merlin laments on the tedium of the evening: Arthur grunts. Any mention of the crops’ success, which should bring a palpable swell of pride to Arthur’s chest, only elicits a nod. 

For all their bantering, teasing and arguments, rarely are things awkward between them. They understand each other. But Merlin understands nothing of this.

It’s with relief that Merlin finally steers them to the wooden door of Arthur’s chambers. Merlin mentally runs through the obstacles between getting Arthur in and getting himself out: stripping Arthur and ensuring he ends up in bed, not passed out on the floor. Then Merlin can leave with his dignity still intact.

He manages to half-shuffle, half-push Arthur through the door, which Merlin slams closed with his foot. A chambermaid has already been in to light the candles. This is one small blessing, one less thing to do, Merlin thinks, and then his plans are shot to hell.

His back hits the door before he realises how he’s got there. 

Arthur invades his space and clutches the tops of his arms with rough hands. For an endless moment all he does is stare, searching Merlin’s eyes, and Merlin is held captive. He feels immobile in Arthur’s hands. 

Merlin’s lips part when Arthur inches closer, still searching.

“You stared at me all night,” Arthur says, his breath fanning out against Merlin’s cheek. “Morgana noticed.” His hands clamp tighter around Merlin arms until it’s painful.

Fuck. This is something they’re not supposed to acknowledge aloud, no matter how many times Arthur catches Merlin staring. Merlin knows, and Arthur knows, but it’s another to speak it. For them both to know.

“I-uhm. You see.”

“Shut up,” Arthur says and presses forward until his chest is against Merlin’s. Merlin is aware of how fast he’s breathing and how obvious it must be when they’re forced so closely together.

Merlin attempts to gather his wits. “What do you want me to say?”

Arthur seizes Merlin’s shoulders with both hands and shoves him back. Merlin’s head knocks against the wood, but the pain is forgotten when he feels Arthur’s breath ghosting along his lips. He can smell the wine on Arthur’s breath. 

He licks his lips.

Arthur’s breath catches and Merlin focusses, and his stomach tightens when he realises Arthur is looking at his mouth. Just to make sure, he tells himself, he repeats the motion. This time the resulting exhale is sharper.

This looks like – but it can’t be. Merlin has no idea what is going through Arthur’s head, whether the thick prat has finally realised. 

“I want you to answer my question, Merlin. Tell me why you were staring.”

Merlin looks away, unable to answer. Arthur wouldn’t appreciate the truth if he knew.

Arthur releases his hold on Merlin’s shoulder in favour of gripping his chin and pulling Merlin’s gaze back to his face. “Answer me, now. I order you.”

Merlin doesn’t like being backed into corners. Not without knowing what’s going on, at least, and he’s not going to answers questions like this.

“Get off me,” Merlin says, and he shoves Arthur back. And, amazingly, Arthur backs off. He blinks at Merlin, as if unsure of what’s just happened. Merlin’s hands are shaking, and somewhere along the way, his cock has hardened.

Merlin stumbles as far away as he can get, seeking refuge next to the table. He breathes in deeply and waits. 

The floor has attracted Arthur’s interest, it seems, because he’s not yet looked up. Merlin sighs, thinking Arthur’s going to remain silent, but he’s wrong.

Arthur’s eyes are still trained on the floor as he says, “This has gone on long enough.” 

It’s true: he’s been caught too often. But he never thought Arthur would confront him and demand an end to it. Merlin feels as if something vital is being sliced open. 

Better to end it now, he thinks, before it begins.

He should leave. He should leave and go back to the peace of his room. He should have a wank and keep his fantasies locked away. But there’s nothing safe about Arthur, nothing safe about them, and his thoughts are muddled, his inhibitions crumbled.

“What were you attempting to ask. Before?” Merlin is surprised that his voice comes out steady. “Ask me nicely and I might answer.”

Arthur raises his head, and Merlin follows the long line of his neck, the fringe of hair that falls over his forehead. Arthur’s eyes are dark.

“Morgana thinks you are attracted to me.”

Merlin rushes to process that.

Lying will get him nowhere.

“What does that matter? A lot of people are guaranteed to find a prince attractive. Look at the way visiting noblewomen fawn all over you.”

Arthur’s teeth clench. He edges toward the table. “I was asking if you find me attractive.”

The beginning of an epiphany teases at the edges of Merlin’s brain: Why should it matter to Arthur if Merlin of all people finds him attractive? 

It might be stupid bravery loosening his tongue, or the alcohol. As Arthur crosses the room, Merlin holds his gaze and doesn’t look away. “Yes. I do.”

Arthur stops before Merlin. He’s looking at Merlin strangely, so strangely that—that—

“And what about you?” Merlin’s voice lowers. “Do you find me attractive?”

Arthur groans low in his throat and launches himself at Merlin. The base of Merlin’s spine hits the back of the table, and it hurts like hell, but he doesn’t care because when he groans, it’s Arthur’s mouth he’s groaning into.

Arthur wastes no time to kiss chastely. There’s nothing proprietary about the way Arthur’s mouth opens on Merlin’s, the way Arthur sucks Merlin’s lower lip into his mouth and flicks at it with his tongue before pulling away. Merlin is left gasping, but he hasn’t forgotten his question, even as his hands find Arthur’s hair.

“I asked you a question, Arthur,” he breathes against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur snarls, grasping Merlin’s hips and pulling them forward so that their bodies are melded together, and obscenely so. Merlin can feel the line of Arthur’s cock against his own. 

It’s all too much, all happening too fast—and oh, God, Arthur sucks on his tongue, and Merlin wonders how that mouth would feel wrapped tightly around his cock. Merlin wants to pocket every memory, savour every sensation, stay in this moment. I could make it so, he thinks. 

It’s all spiralling out of control, and still, Merlin should have expected nothing less. 

Merlin’s fingernails accidentally scratch against Arthur’s scalp, and Arthur groans into his mouth. So Merlin does it again, scratching down his scalp and the nape of his neck. Merlin’s tongue curls around Arthur’s, and he must be doing something right because Arthur grinds himself into Merlin. His hands are clutching Merlin’s hips, tight and bruising. He pulls Merlin against him so their cocks are rubbing through the rough material of Merlin’s trousers. The rhythm is maddening: back and forth, back and forth. 

Merlin tastes wine on Arthur’s tongue, deep and a bit spicy. Merlin fears that it’s him making those continuous groaning noises. His erection is thick and heavy, leaking and desperate, and he’s a few good thrusts away from coming.

Pulling away from the taste of Arthur’s mouth is devastating. “Arthur,” he says, and it escapes as nothing more than a moan.

Arthur is frustrating and stubborn and entirely missing the point: that Merlin is trying to speak to him. He sucks down the line of Merlin’s throat, pulling Merlin’s head back for better access. One nip at Merlin’s adam’s apple, the rough edge of Arthur’s teeth scraping his pulse point, and he is squirming back against the table, pulling Arthur against him.

“Ar—Arthur.” Merlin cannot be expected to think, let alone breathe, when Arthur is licking along the ridges of his collarbones. Arthur’s head is bowed before him, and there’s nothing else that matters.

Arthur licks a circle against the base of his throat, and moves upwards, biting along his jawline. Merlin feels sweat beading at his temple, and Arthur leans in to lick it away.

Merlin moans.

“Arthur,” is ripped from his throat, a question as much as an exaltation. He’s panting, and looking at Arthur’s dark eyes and flushed cheeks is not helping, not in the slightest.

“Damn it, Merlin. Yes,” he says. He presses a single kiss to Merlin’s lips, and doesn’t pull away. “Yes,” he repeats against his mouth. He kisses a path to Merlin’s left ear, licks it, and blows softly. “Yes."

It’s the work of a moment for Merlin to start ripping open Arthur’s trousers. 

Merlin is breathing harshly, feeling magic tingling in his fingers and toes, and he pushes it back. But he can’t push back the full swell of want he has for Arthur, who apparently, insanely feels something of it in return. Merlin’s fingers slide against Arthur’s cock as he wrestles open his trousers. Arthur leans his forehead against Merlin’s.

“Fuck,” he says. His hair is sticking up everywhere, his lips swollen and red, and he’s never been more gorgeous.

Merlin smiles, slow and maybe a bit dirty, and says, “Yeah.”

He pulls Arthur’s cock from his trousers, fucking huge and suffused red with blood. It’s perfect and Merlin wants nothing more than to fuck Arthur with his mouth. Wants to wrap his lips tightly around Arthur’s cock or maybe play with him a bit, flick his tongue against the slit of his cockhead, all show and promise.

But he’s far too desperate for that.

Instead he wraps one hand around the thick shaft of Arthur’s cock and pulls in rough strokes. His calluses catch at the skin, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind. He leans fully against Merlin, mouthing kisses against Merlin’s cheekbone. Merlin flicks his thumb against the head to gather the moisture there, and Arthur whimpers.

A small sound rips from Merlin’s mouth. He brings his hands to up to cup Arthur’s face and seals his lips to Arthur’s. He stays there, just breathing against the softness of Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s eyelashes tickle his cheek as they flutter closed. They stay still for only a moment, and Merlin can think nothing except: thank you.

Arthur’s hand tightens in his hair and pulls back. “Merlin, you’re shaking.”

There’s been enough talking. Merlin reaches around to grab one cheek of Arthur’s arse and he pulls him closer. Arthur rolls his hips into Merlin, and Merlin lets out a strangled groan.

“God, let me,” Arthur says against his mouth, his hand lowering. “You feel –”

Merlin guides Arthur’s hand to his cock. “I am.” He grins.

His grin is answered with a flash of teeth. 

Arthur strokes him, exploring slower than Merlin likes, but when he twists his wrist, it feels divine. “God, you are. So – fucking – hard.”

“Stop talking. I’m - oh - going to lose it,” Merlin gasps. He lets go of Arthur’s arse and grabs his arm. Sweat is gathering at the back of his thighs and he has to pull himself back as Arthur lines up their cocks and squeezes them together in one hand. Arthur’s cock slips easily against his. The friction is made slippery with precome, and Arthur’s balls are snug against Merlin’s. Arthur drags the head of his cock over Merlin’s, and Merlin shudders, toes curling in his boots. “Again.”

Arthur teases the heads of their cocks, rubbing and shifting the skin until Merlin is overly sensitive and keening.

“Merlin – I’ve wanted – for so – fuck.” Arthur’s hand speeds up, so he’s jerking them again. Merlin’s cock is hard, ready to spurt everywhere. The hair nestled at the top of Arthur’s cock scratches against him, threatening to drive him mad. The friction of their cock, sliding together wetly – and Arthur’s forehead is pressed to his again. He’s panting – his moans falling squarely against Merlin’s mouth

“I think about you all the time,” Merlin admits, arousal curling low in his stomach.

“Do you fuck your hand this fast when you’re alone?” Arthur asks, his wrist working frantically.

Pleasure dances along Merlin’s nerves. “No, never this good. Never as good as you,” and even more embarrassingly, “ Please. Fuck me, yes.”

Arthur moans quietly. His eyes flutter closed as his hips jerk, once, twice. With one hand reaching up to pull Arthur’s forehead fully against him, the other still gripping Arthur’s arm, Merlin watches. Has to watch as their cocks slide against each other. Arthur twitches and spurts between them in delicious pulses, and Merlin gives himself over, spine arching, as he comes apart all over them.

Merlin is faint as he releases Arthur’s neck. He slumps back against the table, malleable and wrung out, a bit delirious and mostly just happy. He knows his smile is sappy, when his eyes meet Arthur’s. Arthur swipes his hand over his cock, bringing away their mingled come, and raises his eyebrows. Merlin grins, and opens his mouth for Arthur’s fingers, sucking them and the bitter taste into his mouth. He sucks, taking Arthur in deeper and deeper, until Arthur’s eyes are wide.

“God, we need to try –” Arthur says.

Merlin lets go of Arthur’s fingers with a pop, and murmurs, “Shut up,” and kisses Arthur deeply. They’re both moaning into the kiss, tasting each other. When Arthur pulls away, he looks a bit spellbound. “You are...” he says, and Merlin knows.

“You too,” Merlin says, and also thinks, you are everything. Tempting at some words are to spill from his mouth, there are some things that can’t be said yet. 

But as he tucks Arthur’s hair behind his ear, and whispers, “Bed,” he thinks one day. One day he will tell Arthur everything.


End file.
